


The Little Time Travel Theater

by plumedy



Category: Back to the Future (Movies), Back to the Future: The Game
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ficlet, Friendship, Gen, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 22:01:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3871300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumedy/pseuds/plumedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doc wasn't quite sure what happened to Citizen Brown. But the tone in which Marty said "he told me he'd be okay" clearly implied that nothing, in fact, was remotely okay after that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Time Travel Theater

“You still haven’t told me how that other timeline ended, though.”

“What other timeline?” Marty asked, visibly disinterested. He was trying to cut the strawberry on his piece of cheesecake in two without smashing it into the plate.

“The one where,” Doc made a face, “I supposedly marry Edna and end up turning 1985 into 1984. I doubt I’d get along with that version of myself!”

“You’re right,” shrugged Marty. “You wouldn’t. But I thought he was nice, actually.”

Despite his best efforts, the strawberry slipped away and the spoon hit the plate with a clink. He sighed, his eyes wandering around the sunlit café.

‘Nice’ didn’t really cover it, of course. Citizen Brown was many other things besides that. ‘Naïve, deluded, and something of a chicken’ would’ve been a better description, probably.

“Doc, is it true that all the cells in your body get replaced every ten years?”

Doc gave him a puzzled look.

“Except for the brain cells and the eye lens, yes,” he answered. “Marty, are you alright?”

Watching your best friend die multiple times sucks. But feeling down about his death while talking to him is where it just gets confusing.

Marty stared at Doc’s left hand. It was thin and freckled and kind of awkward, but perfectly solid. It certainly didn’t look like it was about to start fading into nothing.

“So your brain is the same as the brains of all your alternate selves. Cool.”

This was not strictly true, but somehow Doc felt no need to get pedantic.

“He told me he would be okay,” Marty said quietly, and stopped. There was a real, living, worried Doc in front of him, which is why getting teary-eyed made him feel very stupid. He ran his hand through his hair, turning away awkwardly.

It was in moments like this that Doc really doubted that he knew why Marty stuck with him. He thought he was rubbish at resolving complex existential questions and reaching out to scared teenagers - the exact skills that were now badly needed.

But this display of genuine sadness and affection for what, as he had realized with some dismay, was a completely crackpot version of himself was making his throat feel all funny.

“There, there,” he murmured. “What did he look like? Exactly like me?”

“Nah, I guess not.” Marty wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “His hair was sleeker. And he didn’t smile all that much. Or - or at all.”

Doc ran his hand forcefully over his heap of tangled white hair and set his face into a cold half-frown.

“Like this?”

Marty gave him a sheepish and uncomfortable smile.

“Jesus, Doc. This is weird. You ever tried amateur theater?”

“But I’m not acting,” Doc shrugged, and then added, more softly, “at least not entirely. I don’t think that version of me is really gone, Marty. I don’t think any of them are.

“I mean, that’s how time travel is. It may alter your personality, but it won’t bring up anything that is not already there. I am him. And he is me.”

Marty stared at him for a while. He noticed, incongruously and inconsequentially, that the ice in his lemonade had all melted.

“Good thing you have never met him,” Marty said, with just a hint of amusement. “You might not be so sure.”

He reached out and took Doc’s left hand. They sat like this for some time, Marty’s fingers curled comfortably around the edge of Doc’s narrow palm.

It felt right. It felt like fixing a mistake. Marty knew this strange tingling satisfaction; it was the feeling of a completed time loop, a restored timeline, the sensation of healing and mending.

“Heavy,” he said, blinking hard. He didn’t really know what else to say. He looked up and caught the eye of the man whose hand he was holding; it was Citizen Brown; it was Carl Sagan - young Emmett - it was _the_ Doc, his Doc.

“See, that’s what I meant,” Doc said after clearing his throat, “when I told you I’d be okay.”


End file.
